


Most Wanted

by FlyingWrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Hostage Negotiation, Hostage Situations, May or may not be hunters, hostage
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24320410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlyingWrites/pseuds/FlyingWrites
Summary: Dean Winchester has been sitting on the FBI's Most Wanted list for a good while.When he is finally apprehended, not only he is armed as usual.But he is holding a hostage.
Kudos: 3





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in 2014.
> 
> Some characters of season 10 exist here. The events do not, however.

"Put that glock down, Dean," Sergeant Wilson says, looking into the subject's eyes.

They're past the introduction stage, not that they would need one, as Dean Winchester has been sitting on the FBI's Most Wanted list for a good while.

When he is finally apprehended, not only he is armed as usual, Sergeant Wilson's team expected that.

But he is holding a hostage.  
On top of it, the hostage was a Marine in special operations, by name of Trenton.

Fayettevile City PD thought that might be a handful, but that Winchester would take in a marine, in a military town, like that, was bit of a bold move, even for Winchester.

Sergeant Wilson so far isn't happy with the negotiation, either. As they don't have even established motive for the taking, and worse, the taker made no demands.

He just held the hostage at gunpoint for an hour now.

It doesn't make sense to Sergeant Wilson, nor his team, yet. The hostage could have long tried to get away, instead of playing along, but he hasn't.

Sergeant Wilson decides they need more time. Winchester certainly looks deranged enough, muddy and bloody, but the blood on him doesn't seem his.  
On another hand, his moves aren't erratic at all. He's looking calm, moving slow, except for the rough shoves to the captive they'd seen a while ago, and witnesses described as how he took Trenton.

And Trenton doesn't look well. He's unharmed so far, playing it cool, but pretty pale. Sergeant Wilson is worried about shock and would rather see him in the ER like an half an hour ago, but they'll get there, need to get him out first.

"Let me try this again, Dean," sergeant says. Softer.

"Cole here looks pretty sick, I'd rather have someone look him over. Do you think you could do that, while still having him in your hands?" he says the most nonchalant he can.

Dean stares at him, still not saying anything and not moving the hand an inch, but he nods. Not sure if acknowledgment of the proposal or an agreement.

"Was that a yes, someone may come check on Cole?" sergeant presses.

Winchester tilts head to the other side and then, still aiming at Trenton, shakes it. Guess that's a no, then.

"I understand you have an issue with him, so might not want him well. That's alright," Wilson tries.

Winchester curls lips as if to speak but doesn't say anything. He looks disgusted and slightly darker than he has a second ago, but also more composed.

Trenton doesn't opine anything, but looks horrified for a millisec. Sergeant makes a mental note to not poke into their relationship again, as Trenton obviously knows what's up, and thinks this line of questions is just tying the rope around his neck tighter.

Winchester presses Trenton tighter to his chest. Trenton microblinks and looks exhausted, but sergeant doesn't know if it's exhaustion, relief, or something else.

"It must be tiring, holding the glock so long at that angle," Wilson tries, watching them.

Dean's eyes flash something that could be annoyance and could be anger, before he dry swallows and says, "Not really."

Sergeant is almost relieved for a little, as the subject's finally talking to him, even if it's just a short note.

"I apologize if I insulted you, Dean. Didn't mean that. It just looked to me you've been spending a long time on it, and might want to do something else."

Dean shakes head.  
Not up to something else, then.  
He's perfectly happy holding a hostage and doesn't want that interrupted.

"Do you keep hostages for fun often, Dean?" sergeant tries. Dean raises brow at him and then bites his lips, not saying anything.

"I was just curious. Helps me to know how other people spend their days." sergeant shrugs.

Dean smiles a bitter one. Hell. Not good.

"I mean, I usually play pool with friends, have a couple of beers, that's it, everybody goes home."

The mention of home gets Dean agitated. For a while his gun hand shakes a little, but he steadies himself fast.

Fine, we're not talking about home again.

"I apologize I upset you, wasn't my intent. Just wanted to know what gives you the jollies."

Other than carving women up like over a decade ago in St.Louis, escaping Supermax black sites as in Colorado, and god knows what you do with corpses, he doesn't add.

"You well know what I do." Dean says, stern. There's a tone of betrayal to that accusation, hidden under layers of... grief? Sadness? Loneliness? Rage? Sergeant doesn't know which.

"Mind enlightening me?"

"Drink whiskey all day." he says bitterly.

"Like sixty eight shots a day? There was a lot of bottles last motel you stayed, I'm told." sergeant acknowledges the last piece of ear-piece intel he's hearing.

"Something like that." Dean smiles. Slight, but it might as well be a 1000 watt smile, given it's the firstie since this whole thing started.

Sergeant just isn't sure that's a good thing.

Glancing at the hostage's reaction, it might be, though. Mister Trenton seems... more at ease? Not like struggling for self control or forcing the cool, in every case.

"What do you drink most, Dean?"

"Stuff."

Alright, so his drinking altogether is a personal business. Got it.

"Would you like to have a drink, then?"  
Not using his name on this one. Being in his face with it, while in his business, might have him squeezing the trigger.

And sergeant really needs to know if this spell is compounded by a withdrawal, or not. Not that he would bring him a drink even if he could, and he can't.

"Not right now."

Dean is back to guarded and clipped answers and hard faced, but at least he didn't go back to silence, so that's good.

"What do you want, right now?"

Dean watches sergeant a while. Open faced, honest, not faking the curiosity.

"Like you give a flying." he finally retorts.

"I do. I care about you." And Cole. But let's not remind him of that.

"Doubt it." Winchester cuts him off.

"Why not?"

Dean just stares at him, eyes dead.

"Because you left." He finally says.

Sergeant stares him into the eyes, steely and cold. He wants to take him in right then, but there's a hostage to free first.

"Is that why you're here, now, Dean? You wanted attention?" My attention, he doesn't say.

"No."

"What, then?"

"You can have him, if you want. You just can't have me." And with that, he pushes Cole forward - but Trenton turns and disarms him, hissing "Not today, mate." before moving far away, Dean's glock in his hand, letting Sergeant Wilson's, born Winchester, team take the taker in.


	2. Pull The Trigger And The Nightmare Stops.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "How did you know what's... you know, up to?" Sam asks.
> 
> "I didn't," Cole sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the references, like Cole's bracketed thoughts, will make sense only if you're familiar with military culture.
> 
> I'm taking total artistic liberties with agencies here, though, handing a federal fugitive to local PD S.W.A.T team.
> 
> Other than that, enjoy. :)

A week later, sergeant Not-Winchester-Now and staff sergeant Trenton sit in a bar, the darkest place of it and unseen by the entering visitors, but with a good look to every exit.

A beautiful waitress, blonde and sweet eyes, sweeter smile, and the curves, just delicious, brings them water and beer respectively.

Trenton got just released from the hospital that insisted after such trauma (Pft. Kids in Congo and Afghanistan packed with C4s are trauma. This shit is nothing.) he better takes it through the psych ward, just to make sure. (I'm not crazy, doc. I still eat my crayons just fine.)

Trenton being Cole Trenton of course didn't like a single thing about that stay, not even how long it took him to get a discharge, but his commanding officer wanted him (thoroughly kept under the wraps and out of public spotlight, is what.) healthy, so there wasn't much Cole could do about it.

He still feels skittish around people, though. Not sure which of them will go Winchester-psycho on him. But hey, this is America, not Congo or Afghanistan, so it could be worse.

Besides, it was just one crazed dude with a gun for a couple of minutes.

"How did you know what's... you know, up to?" Sam asks him when the gorgeous waitress is lost from sight.

"I didn't," Cole sighs, looking older and weary and tired a while.

"Just figured he didn't go off the deep end just like that, yanno? He was calm in all the wrong spots. And I seen that, downrange. Sandbox and all. With men who blew themselves up." He shrugs and sips on his beer.

Sam pauses to consider and watches newcomers a while, inpresently.

"Still, that could have been so much else, and-"

"It was pretty clear aim, suicide by cop," Cole cuts him off.

"He is driven. Figures that would be one sureway shit way to go out. If he set his mind to it. And I thought he has, 'cause last I heard of him was when I was stationed in Helmand, and that crap went down. You know. For him. Poor son of a bitch."

Neither of them spells it out.  
Not here, surrounded by civvies like that.  
Besides, they both hate even the word, torture. Much less knowing the man that went through it.

This up close.

"Besides, it made the only kind of logical sense," Cole continues after a while, quieter.

"Pull the trigger and the nightmare stops. It wasn't really about me, I was just a prop for some other guy he was made do things to back then. Like the way he handled me, it was as if I'm not even there. As if he's in his head with some other poor fucker."

Silence falls between them for a good long while.

"So you weren't gonna give that to him."

"Hell no, I was terrified. But for him. Or that the sniper'll get pissed off on my behalf and act before anyone green lights it."

"You know everybody knew they can't get so jumpy," Sam reminds him, gentler, sipping the water and thinking maybe he should have asked for vodka to this conversation, instead. The drinks are mild and the words too heavy.

"Sure. But this was Dean fricking Winchester. The best at what he does and it sure hell ain't nice, but he's not finished until it's solid dead."

Sam sighs. Dean didn't use to be like that. Or he was, but aimed it healthier.

Not into self destruction.

"Question is," Cole continues, watching him. Maybe too sharply. "Can he be helped? Cause I think he can. There's still a good man, out there. Under all that mud and blood and crap."

Sam sighs. "I don't know, Cole. We cut ties years ago because he just changed. I don't even know him anymore. And after this -"

"Hey, hey. That's me you are talking about, there. This petty hostage shit was my dealio, so back off. As in thanks for saving my ass but the rest, shove it big fella. Dean may have been up to no good for a good long time, but many moons ago he was fine, and as long as he's kicking on the alive side and not kicking for the wrong team, his solo escapades, shrinks will deal better than the prison system. He just won't like it."

Cole finishes his beer in a single gulp.

"Neither do I," Sam sighs, sadder.

"Deano will be fine, really. And I gotta jet." Cole says, glancing at the time.

Sam just nods and touches his shoulder, lightly.

The unspoken You take care of you, thanks for your time, and see you in a bit.

Cole smiles and gets up to go pay his bill, leaving Sam to his thoughts.

Dean will be fine.

He really wants to believe that.


	3. What Goes Around... Comes Around.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean's sitting on a bed in a holding cell.
> 
> They told him they might swing a transfer. To a nuthouse of all things. 
> 
> He doesn't even hear it for as far as he's concerned, his head is swimming.

Around The Same Time

Dean's sitting on a bed in a holding cell that's become his home now, head to knees, back to a wall.

They told him they might swing a transfer. To a nuthouse of all things. A lot of chatter about competency hearing required, being non compos mentis, retracted charges possibilities by the reason he's insane and other things.

He doesn't even hear it for as far as he's concerned, his head is swimming.

He tried his best to make them back off - both the police paramedic that tried to assesss his injuries and if they *are* his injuries, and then the other guy with a tranq syringe when that didn't go over so well.

Neither of those worked and when he woke up, he was in a cell room.

And everything was too bloody bright.

Never even mind it was the night already.

The darkness is different here, topside, than in Purgatory.

Shadows don't move, nor have ears. The darkness isn't pitch black when it tries being nice to you. It doesn't hide things that crawl and sink needles into you and whose going for your throat rapid speed is the kindest most well manneered thing they can do.

No, the darkness now is just bright.  
Boring, burning, bright... and bleak.

Like about much of his future, but he doesn't have a mind for that, either.

For now he tries to remember who he is.

He kept telling people he managed to speak to name's Jimmy Hendrix.

Didn't really know where that is from.  
They laughed and eyerolled but it wasn't cackling laughter so he let them be, figuring that is a good thing.

And a card he found in his half torn clothes said Dean Winchester. It had a picture on it that might have been him, so he figured whoever this 'Dean' is, he looks close enough he might want to try to pass for him.

So he started to call himself Dean from that point.

From somewhere deep in his mind floats back the whisper he shouldn't use that name much, though, as ugly things happen when he does. What ugly things, he doesn't know.

The next thing he knows is he's looking for Sammy (Always), but the thought of a Sammy makes him sick and tired and so mad.

The other next thing he knows is he needs to find (Fang)  
(No, that was Benny)  
(Brother)

... but those memories have teeth and claws and bite. But at least those make sense. Lots of kicks, heads flying through the air, punches. Being punched.  
And Fang (Benny) cutting heads off of anyone that punched him.

For a good long while he was just blinking.  
Trying for it all to make sense.

It didn't.

So he gave up on it and did the next best thing whispers in his head told him to do. The next image, move, face that came to him.

But it turned out people didn't like being snarled at, so he tried to not speak whenever he could. Say words he remembers for sure. That have a meaning, not just a sound. That he remembers faces to.

His problem with that is when he finally finds the face most words' images turn to in his head, that face is staring at him from a bar TV.

Wearing an uniform.

Sammy.  
Cop.

He isn't sure how that came out to be. He knows uniforms are to be avoided at all cost.

But there he is, a Sammy...

A Sammy is an uniform and nothing makes sense anymore.

And then he sees other news report and remembers that face. Slightly younger, but does.

He trained that guy.  
Kept some other things that weren't monsters, but just people, from cutting his head off.

Turned that attention on himself when they took him in.

Did he doesn't remember what, and then he ran. And ran. Thirsty and with fire in his lungs, but he ran.

Something in his head sings a melody It ain't easy, living free - and he scoffs and coughs. Amused.

There are so many chills going through his body but that melody is good.

Is everything good.

Is Sammy.

Except Sammy is an uniform and that thought steals all the cheers.

* * *

He decides he will ask this Face Two guy.

Cole. Trenton.

Maybe Face Two will know how to talk to Sammy.

But when he finally finds him in another bar and scent tracks him to his house, Cole doesn't want to talk to him. He recommends him to get lost. Long before Trenton's wife sees him. Don't even think of scaring my lady, and what are you on, bath salts?

Dean doesn't know what any of that is so he just smiles, silent.

Cole closes the door on him faster by that point. With some Come back when you're clean, Deano. But stay away from the wife.

That word, the wife, hurts.  
He remembers a black haired woman with a small child.

He remembers it was like now, everything was hurting and Sammy was lost.

But nothing else about her. Or that kid. Cute kid. One he wants to protect (bite heads off everyone if chops don't do the job) (rip throats of by his fangs)

Thinking of fangs hurts, again.

No fangs with these ones.  
Don't do fangs. Scary.  
Them scared is bad.  
Don't scary.  
We smile at those.

He tries to shake it off.

Benny. Brother.  
Brother that makes sense.  
Find first.

But there's also Sammy comes first (Always) and his head about explodes, again.

And he knows that's not what the words say, either. Head pain is not head kaboom.

Head kaboom was the same land with this Cole dude.

So tired. Keep going, dammit.

* * *

And now he's behind bars, alone, and even after meeting Sammy he's not closer to making any sense of it.

Maybe he should have abandoned that.  
Find Benny first.  
Cold and smooth and solid and home.

But he wanted warm and happy and safe and heart first.

He wanted Sammy.


	4. Sympathy For The Devil.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes Benny a while to make sense of the images Dean's sending.

It takes Benny a while to make sense of the images Dean's sending.

They're disjointed, even for a freshly re-Turned vampire who once was a human, then a monster, and then a vampire to save him from being something else, altogether.

Benjamin 'Benny' Lafitte drinks every so often like many men in their (apparent) late 40s, too, but he'll be damned if he ever gets that level of confused.

Or that level of mad determined.

Very shortly put, Benny doesn't give a fuck.

That is, about most things. Most people.  
Some, he cares to death (and beyond) for.

One of those lucky bastards happens to be Dean Winchester.

Dean, when they ask you your name, never tell. You're a shit magnet, frere. I'm sure your name is cursed, Ben told him when they got topside.

Or, when Dean got him back in his body and then they traveled for a while, as Ben bit him to keep him from dropping dead from starvation and exhaustion alike. It meant not having a source of easy blood, but fuck that, the last few months Ben wasn't feeding anyway, as Dean could barely keep upright, and his best fighting strategy was play a dead bug and let Benny smite it.

Yeah, petit frere worries Benny a lot.

What gets him worried far more is not hearing from him for a few months.

Benny almost hoped Dean found a good woman, vampire or not, and settled in.

Or that he forgot about him, however melancholic that makes him...

But he wouldn't be the first person Benjamin considered a brother who left, or the last.

To his surprise, images keep flashing to him time to time, and to his astonishment, the sender is no one else than Dean.

It seems he can't get his mind together, things blur one over another and there is a sense of paranoia from everyone and subtle hostility with every third flicker.

Along with nagging dark bursts of something Benny reads as frustration.

He remembers Dean throwing those fits. Not really malicious, just mighty fed up when he couldn't solve a problem.

Ben sighs, remembering the times he taught Dean to control those. Cool it. Calm it. Observe. Be patient. You will get to your goal no matter what.

Right now as Benny drinks third glass of red wine, as the evening is slow going (it's two in the afternoon, but the skies are dark already, so we may consider it an evening.), he tries to make sense of thoughts felt from Dean the last few days.

They were chaotic, but there was a smooth calm he really tried to move over everything.

More wanting answers, than blood.

Rage the younger brother had nowhere to put and felt squashed by the need to hide it.

Bottles and unhappiness over bottles.

Can't drink. You. Sammy.

The need for blood packets of human blood (feed. Alive again.)

Don't feed on actual people.

The struggle not to.

And wanting to ask him, Benny Lafitte, the king of Being Properly And Royally Fucked, for advice on what to do with any of that.

But then there's nothing.  
Just darkness and despair.

Just darkness and nothing.

No, Benny doesn't like that at all.

His brother shouldn't feel just darkness. Even fighting in Purgatory's darkness, he always had a plan. Always moving. Several steps ahead. So active.

Not so quiet and giving up.  
Desperate.

But the next thoughts give Benny an idea.

Uniform guy...  
And bars.

Not the fun kind, prison bars.

But prisons, Benny knows.

And most of all, pirates and smugglers almost everywhere in the world owe him a favor.

He'll be damned and eat his hat if he can't jailbreak one Dean Winchester.


End file.
